


if you like your coffee hot

by shortitude



Series: in our bedroom after the war [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Brief mentions of other characters - Freeform, F/M, Fingerfucking, Foreplay, Slow Dancing, Some Plot, Vague canon compliance, a whole lot of tension, assholes who love too hard, possibly part of a series, some porn, technology what is technology??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-25
Updated: 2015-02-25
Packaged: 2018-03-15 05:05:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3434627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shortitude/pseuds/shortitude
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the rescue, Bellamy and Raven finally get a chance to talk. Yeah, right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	if you like your coffee hot

**Author's Note:**

> i dedicate this piece to the RavenBell part of fandom: you've sucked me in, your fics are amazing, here's a little reward. title follows "i wanna be yours" by arctic monkeys, which might totally be one of the songs on the mp3 player in this fic.

The survivors of Mount Weather trickle into Camp Jaha for hours; some carried in stretchers by Abby’s improvised team of medics. It pleases Raven to see Clarke included on that team, thankfully; she’s seen the world burn, she’s had her revenge, she seems to be trying to be the person she was when their people started to look up to her. There’s hope for the Princess yet. 

She stands at the entrance with Wick watching her people come back, relief sweeping over her with each familiar faces that crosses the gates. There are a lot more Grounders now, Clarke told her via radio; more Grounders that will need their help and the blameless people in Mount Weather they’re going to have to deal with eventually. It’s back to the drawing board with diplomacy issues. Raven doesn’t see some of the Grounders honoring their agreement for long if it doesn’t please them, but she’s done being Clarke’s unheard counselor for the day. 

He brings up the rear of the group, because of course he would want to watch over his people now that they’re back. (When she sees the look on his face, part pride and part relief, she remembers a time when Bellamy Blake needed a kick in the ass to realize how he was supposed to lead these people. It seems so far away, he seems so different.) She doesn’t realize she’s holding her breath until he stops in front of her and she almost shakes with the next inhale. 

“I brought you something,” is the first thing he says, shocking her. She expected a reprimand, for what happened in TonDC (she’d been the first to tell him about O being there, but she’d been the first to tell him that O was safe as soon as she’d known), but instead she gets a very thin metal square dropped into her open hand. By the earphones attached to it, she determines it must be an old-as-dirt model of a music player. “Maya says she used it to fall asleep after her mom died.” Which is telling, isn’t it? He brought it because he thinks of Finn too, or maybe he thinks of her thinking of Finn. 

Just like that, the unresolved thing between them is brought right back up to surface. Aware of Wick’s presence a few feet beside her, she smiles up at Bellamy anyway. She’s probably going to hear shit about this from Wick, like how he didn’t actually think she had the ability to do that programmed into her black box, but screw whatever Wick might say. Her fingers curl over the little box, still warm from being inside Bellamy’s pocket. 

“You know some girls don’t need gifts, shooter. Some girls need their friends to come back alive and well.”

There’s a stretch of silence, during which Bellamy curls his tall body towards her and Raven believes that he’s thinking of hugging her. The moment stretches for too long, and gets interrupted by Octavia flinging herself into her brother’s arms for a hug that lasts minutes. Raven leaves them to it, pocketing the mp3 player. So their moment to talk gets put aside again, but she doesn’t find it upsetting her; he’s back – they’re back – and it’s what she needed to happen. For the first time in a week, her act of healing after losing Finn feels like it can stop being just pretend. 

If there’s a spring in her step when she returns to her workshop, nobody comments on it. 

 

 

 

She installs a long-lasting battery in the mp3 player, because there aren’t a lot of sockets going around for her to charge it any other way. She thinks that when Maya gets to visit the Camp, she’ll return it; it’s hers, after all, no matter Bellamy’s good intentions to fix her with the gesture. Raven Reyes fixes herself. 

She’s shuffling through the songs, feeling a new surge of respect for the young woman who helped Bellamy and the 47 through the process of escaping, because some of these songs would’ve likely gotten censored on the Ark for being too suggestive. And by suggestive she means hot. 

Like some sort of karmic retribution, it’s during one of such songs when Bellamy chooses to come into her workshop. He ducks his head to step through the plastic curtain even though she doesn’t see the point of it. Bellamy bowing to someone doesn’t feel right, never will. 

She pulls one earphone out of her ear and catches then end of: “—aired it.” 

“Yeah, works like a charm.” Of course she repaired it. She’s got company now, but the workshop is still her territory for the night. Wick’s vacated, going out to join the heavy drinking the soldiers are doing; he deserves it, and she deserves her silence. Her turf means that Raven doesn’t push herself up to stand straight when Bellamy comes in, because she doesn’t defer to him. If he thinks anything of the way she’s sprawled in her chair, he doesn’t say it. 

But he looks like he wants to say _something_ , so in anticipation she clears a corner of her desk for him to lean up against if he wanted to. He takes her cue, gaze not leaving hers, and Raven wonders if they’re always going to communicate through eye contact and nothing else. 

“I wanted to thank you,” says Bellamy, breaking the silence at last, taking up space. At Raven’s raised eyebrows, he takes his cue to elaborate. “For telling me. It turns out – not knowing what to expect would’ve distracted me more. Thinking about O being in danger because of Wallace’s orders put everything into focus.” 

“I know.” Clarke might be more approachable now that she’s separated herself from Lexa’s ideology, but back then she’d been impossible to reason with. She’d grated on Raven’s nerves endlessly, with her Commander Griffin attitude, forgetting who she was dealing with at all. She’d seen through the cracks, seen the girl behind that forced façade of control crumbling under the weight on her shoulders. Hugging Clarke had been more important than telling Clarke her idea was stupid. 

So when Clarke had run to TonDC, Raven had let it slip to Bellamy on the radio because part of her continued to shout that it wasn’t fair not to tell him. She would’ve been a mess, in his place, if someone would’ve told her Finn had died. But being told he was in danger would’ve just made her focus on making sure the danger was erased. 

“I know,” Bellamy throws back at her, and they do know, don’t they? She hadn’t expected to find someone who understood her like Bellamy does, and yet here they are. Here they are, looking at each other like they’re not sure what the waiting limit is on these things. 

She lets out a sigh and hands him the earphone she’s not using, pushing her chair closer to him. Her elbow brushes his knee, and his hand lies over the backrest of her chair; they listen to one song in silence, not looking at each other. Then the tune changes, turns slow, and Bellamy moves his hand from the backrest to the nape of her neck, drawing a circle with one blunt nail. She thinks of leaning into it, of tipping her head back and closing her eyes and tugging him down, celebrating them being alive in the best way she knows. 

He pulls her out of the chair before she gets to, spins her around so she’s standing in front of him, and with the earphones divided between them he starts to sway them. It pulls a smile out of her, “Smooth.” 

“Shh, Reyes, don’t interrupt me when I’m dancing with a hot girl.” It’s all noise, the asshole; all an act, because god forbid either of them say the words they actually mean. (Except obviously, she’s hot, that’s not a lie.) 

She rolls her eyes and leans her head on his shoulder, lets it happen and lets him lead. Once in a lifetime thing right there, she tells herself; not going to happen again. When the curve of her neck receives the whisper of his breath, her skin breaks in small little goose pimples. She, surprisingly, doesn’t think of Finn; it doesn’t feel like a betrayal, like it might’ve felt the first night even though they’d broken up. Whatever this is, whatever it might become, it no longer has to do with Finn. 

“You were wrong, you know?” comes his voice, very soft, as soon as the song changes again. Bless Maya for her freaky playlist, it’s another slow and suggestive song. Sensual, she’ll call it sensual, because the way his hand climbs up her spine is exactly that and she can’t help but let her breath puff against the collar of his shirt. She doesn’t answer, so he goes on, “You have more people left here.” 

That’s the Bellamy Blake way for ‘I care about you and you’re not alone’. It’s a well-intended, she’ll give him that; but nobody will ever know her the way Finn knew her. Nobody will have the same history with her like Finn. He was her family on the Ark, her family on the ground. But she hears the meaning beneath: it doesn’t start and end in Finn. 

“I thought you weren’t the kind of guy who cared, Blake,” she murmurs somewhere where his shirt meets the skin of his collarbone. Snorts softly, right as she says it, because what a joke that is. Bellamy not caring, yeah right – he cares too much, hides it barely. 

Like right now. She feels his fingers tunneling through her hair like a shiver that runs down her spine. He makes her pull away from where she is leaning, tips her head back so she looks at him, the earphone pulled from her ear and plunging her into the subdued noise of the room. What she finds when she looks up at Bellamy mirrors what she feels: eyes half-closed, lips parted with secret anticipation, a tension in the way he looks at her, and then more. Nobody comes in to interrupt this time, so she meets him half-way and lets their mouths crush together, liking the way the impact feels as imminent as opposite sides of magnets being drawn together.

Similar to that, there’s something – the clap of thunder, the snap of tension, the synchronization in the way they groan and pull each other even closer – that continues to make her think of a trainwreck. Only better, the good kind; the kind that has him running his thumbs over her cheekbones before letting his hands travel down to her hips. For someone releasing tension built over days, Bellamy turns out to be more patient than she is. She’s ready to climb under his skin even before he runs his tongue against her lips and then past them to rub it against her tongue and draw out a feeble little sound. He, in the meantime, seems content with letting his hands rest on her hips, thumb and pointer finger of his right hand slipped under her shirt to touch skin. He licks into her mouth and draws his nails over her skin again, and then nothing. 

She’s going to kill him. 

“Bellamy,” is her only warning, her voice sounding raw even to herself. He seems to like it, by the way he darts down to draw her bottom lip between his teeth; like that, lip held prisoner, he lifts her up with both hands under her ass and puts her down on her desk. Shit. 

Last time they fucked – only time they fucked, actually – she’d worn that excuse for a shirt, easy to take off and leave him near breathless with the knowledge that she wore no bra under it. This time, she’s been provided with new gear and new clothes, cleaner than the bloodstained mess from before. He has to unzip her vest first, shucking it off somewhere behind them when he takes it off. Then there’s the shirt, the sports bra; doesn’t matter, his hands – both of them thank god – circumvent all articles of clothing, and she has him cupping both her breasts in both his hands under the fabric of her bra. 

She lets out a breathless, raspy sound against his lips, so it’s already going better than the last time they fucked. He seems to be remembering that too, because he lets go of her lip and smiles against his mouth. “That’s more like it, Reyes,” he murmurs against her lips, and his fingers find her nipples, pinching and tugging, reducing her response to a grunt and how did he fucking know? He does it again, electricity running down her spine and reaching every part of her that can still feel; turns out, a lot of her still can. She sort of humps the table to get closer to the edge of it and draw him forward between her legs, it’s all sorts of embarrassing. 

Except when he leaves her mouth to drop kisses down her neck like he’s leaving a map behind him. She lets her head drop back this time and lets out her breath. It rattles in her chest as it comes through, it sends blood rushing to her ears, and it has her fingers digging into his shoulders. He kisses the top of one breast over her t-shirt, then the top of the other; she feels his breath first, and then the little bite that makes her jump. She whispers a little “Fuck,” and presses her lips to the crown of his head. 

For some reason – torture – he develops a conscience at exactly that moment and pulls away to look at her. She’s about to tell him to do that thing again when he whispers, “Do you think someone will come in?” 

She considers it. The door _is_ basically just a curtain right now, and noise would transfer and transmit; the tent did the same, but she’d been subdued that night. She probably would have trouble with that tonight. Her eyebrows raise again, her tongue darting out to wet her lips. “I don’t think so.” Then, she adds, “I’m kind of hoping someone will come, though.” Because yes, Bellamy Blake, there’s a whole lot of game you have to step up. 

He lets out a laugh that sounds weird to her because she realizes it’s his embarrassed laugh. She may not be coming yet, but hearing it feels strangely special to her. “You will,” he replies, kissing the corner of her mouth and pulling away. He helps her off the table. 

She wants to make a comment, like he’d been on the right path just then but right now she’s not seeing it happening, but he shushes her with a thumb pressed to her parted lips. It’s effective enough that he smirks, prompting her to bite at the pad of his thumb. 

“Come on,” he finally says, pulling himself away from the hypnotizing image of her tongue pressed to his thumb; pulling his hand away takes longer. She likes watching him weigh his plans out like this. “I know a place.” 

It’s awfully confident of him, thinking that she’d follow him. 

She follows him. 

 

 

 

Turns out the place he knows is her room. He makes her come once against the door when they’re inside it, his hand shoved down the front of her pants, thumb against her clit and free hand over her mouth; she sucks on two of his fingers instead of saying his name like a whispered prayer. The second time she’s not that lucky. 

 

 

 

After, she still feels his fingertips running up her spine, and can tell he’s about to continue tradition and ask _did that help_. It’s sweet, he thinks that’s how they’re going to work. 

She cuts him off fast. 

“Next time, you fuck me on the desk.”

**Author's Note:**

> a couple of things: first, i'm very nervous to be in this part of the fandom, so comments will be GREATLY appreciated. secondly, this song has my heart and i have a couple of other ideas for future pwp follow-ups to this fic where all they do is bone a lot. maybe talk (maybe talk dirty??). so don't hate me for brushing over the fun bits THIS TIME, there'll be other times.


End file.
